


Flavours of hope

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Season 1, bedannibalprompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 18:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11697426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Hannibal wants nothing more to than invite his psychiatrist to dinner.





	Flavours of hope

She reminds him of hot chili peppers truffles; velvety on an outside, but with a deep dusky taste of dark chocolate and a surprising sharpness of hot spice, leaving a tingling sensation in the back of your throat. They are not to everyone’s taste, but Hannibal is sure she would enjoy them. She shows fondness for unusual things. And unusual people.

It’s his favourite hour of a week. He sits across from his psychiatrist silently admiring her poised manner, her hands resting calmly on her lap. Her stillness captives him as much as her eyes, always luminous and alert.

She comments on his involvement in the Minnesota Shrike case and he drinks every word pouring from her plush lips. She asks him a question and he barely responds. Her eyes narrow, just a fraction. He knows she can always tell when he tries to avoid proper replies.

No, perhaps she would prefer caramel, he thinks as she tosses her golden locks over her shoulder, soft and warm, melting sinfully on your tongue.

“Agent Crawford of the FBI is coming over for dinner,” he says unexpectedly.

“I did not know you were becoming friendly with the FBI,” her voice remains dispassionate, but her words cut through his veil.

_Sharp and brilliant._ Hannibal tries hard not to smile.

“He is not a friend. We are working together,” he explains, “It is refreshing for the acquaintances to meet outside the work environment. It promotes amiability and an exchange of ideas in a relaxing space.”

“It might also reflect an inability to draw a line between a colleague and a friend,” her eyes peer into his and he holds her gaze.

“Or a desire to blur these lines,” he responds bluntly and feels as though he is sizzling under her gas flame stare, the most exquisite sensation.

He prepares crème brûlée with salted caramel that evening. As his spoon breaks through the caramel and meets the creamy custard centre, he thinks of her words piercing though his shell and reaching straight for his soul.

 

“Red or white?”

Hannibal relishes that moment like a rarest of delicacies, a tiny thread of saffron tinting his heart. They are no longer confined to the space of the opposite chairs; the room grows together with possibilities. He watches her swirls her Shiraz, the deep ruby liquid flowing smoothly around the glass. He imagines her in another place, wearing a crimson dress, being treated to his finest wine, the one he has been saving for a special occasion. For a special person.

“I am organising a dinner party,” he says. Bedelia takes a sip of her wine and remains silent.

“I haven’t hosted one in while, but I have been persuaded.”

“Why now?” she asks at last, her curiosity of him taking over.

“It is an opportunity to engage with people who would not be comfortable sharing a table with me on their own, “he gazes at her, anticipating a reaction, but she merely finishes her wine.

“I hope your dinner will be a success,” she comments, setting the glass down,” I will see you next week.”

 

The first two letters are a bit uneven as he starts addressing the envelope. He knows she won’t attend, but the fibre of hope remains, tasting sweet and bitter at the same time.

Hannibal focuses on the food instead. He separates the prosciutto slices, twirling them into spirals. His fingertips gently flare out the upper edges to resemble ruffled petals. He always wanted to give her roses.

The invitation returns two days later; “will not attend” box marked with an elegant tick. Hannibal traces the mark with his fingers, looking for a quiver of a hand. Did she hesitate? Does she have regrets? He is afraid he will never know.

 

Their next session proceeds as normal, but all her questions are generic and his answers are vague. She does not ask about his dinner party and he does not bring up the subject. Sorrow spills over his wounded heart like a red fruit sauce poured over a tender loin. The hour comes to an end and the unspoken sentiments still hang in the air.

He lets her choose the wine and she returns with a bottle of Meursault. An excellent choice, he thinks enjoying its rich flavour of hazelnuts and honey, but does not comment. The silence between them is more poignant than ever before.

“Your presence was missed at the dinner,” he finally voices his sadness, keeping his eyes on the rim of his glass.

“I am your psychiatrist, Hannibal. It would be unethical for me to attend,” she replies sternly. Silence falls again.

“I heard it was quite an amazing night,” she speaks once more, a slight hesitancy in her tone; it disappears almost immediately, but it was there, a tiny drop of regret. Hannibal looks at her, unsure what to say next.

“Another glass of wine?” she offers unexpectedly, meeting his eyes.

“Yes, please.”

Bedelia goes not refill the glasses and Hannibal smiles. There is hope in the wine.

**Author's Note:**

> For the first prompt of the bedannibal prompt blog: https://electric-couple.tumblr.com/  
> It's canon that Hannibal spent most of the sessions fantasising about Bedelia.


End file.
